Miranda's World
by Dr. Strange
Summary: Sequel to Knight in Shining Armor. Miranda has a secret admirer, and wouldn't you know it, Gordo's spider sense is tingling.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes:

I own the rights to none of the characters in this story, even the characters that I created. If Disney wants to film this story and show it every year at Christmas, they have my permission.

Greetings, again. One or two folks have asked for a sequel to Knight in Shining Armor, so this is my blundering attempt. This adventure is rated M for mature story elements, M for some naughty language, and most of all, M because KISA, which is pretty much required reading for this story, was also rated M, and if you can't read KISA, you probably won't understand much of what's going on here.

So, we'll take a short break here, to give you the chance to go over there and read Knight in Shining Armor. We'll still be here.

Okay, once again, no sweating body parts here (but now, at least, **I** can tell **you** where to find them-just zip me an email).

By the time you finish the first chapter or two, I'm confident you'll be thinking "Cliché." In fact, you may be thinking it already. All I can ask is that you give me the opportunity to show that I can avoid the cliché. I may fail, but we won't know until the end. And if I do fail, the least I can do is try to write the cliché well.

This is only a preview of the first chapter. Look at it as kind of like the blurb on the back cover of a paperback book. My goal is to go without sleep, and have the full chapter up by Thanksgiving weekend. Thanks, everyone, for all the encouragement during the last eighteen months.

* * *

Miranda's World  
Chapter 1

Larry Tudgeman once told me that all excellent stories require closure, and by that, he meant "happy endings." Personally, I think Larry's read too many fairy tales, but I knew better than to engage in the philosophical debate with him. I recognized that for every story I could name that didn't provide us with "closure", his likely response would be, "And therefore, it is, by definition, not an excellent story." So I simply bit the inside of my lower lip, and nodded thoughtfully.

Now, I told you that to tell you this. Regardless of the imaginary requirements of the excellent story, real life feels no such burden. In life, sometimes the endings are happy. Sometimes they're not. Life makes no promises, and neither can I. And yet, while real life never truly begins or ends, stories do, and mine begins during spring break, in our junior year of high school.

We were cruising down Navarro Boulevard, on the way to the Galleria. Lizzie had just regained her driving privileges, after being grounded for two weeks, due to a…a misunderstanding on her last Chemistry test, and with Coldplay pounding through her mom's SUV, she was chauffeuring Miranda and me. Well, more Miranda, I guess, than me.

Lizzie and I had found…well, we call them jobs…in the past couple of months, Lizzie as a part-time receptionist/gopher at a multi-specialty medical group, and I was an intern at a medium-sized advertising agency. Miranda was operating on a different frequency: she was in the midst of starting her own band.

And Dark Journey was well on its way. She had a lead guitar, a bassist, keyboards, and backup vocals. She was, of course, lead singer, but she could also fill in on any of those other instruments, if the song required it. She had Peavey speakers and a sound board that her parents had given her for Christmas. She had her own on-stage outfit (and trust me on this: no one looked better in tight black leather than Miranda Sanchez), and she even had four original songs, two written by her, and even one with lyrics provided by Lizzie. She had it all. Well, there was the teensy little dilemma of a missing drummer, which was causing Miranda all kinds of stress. That was part of the reason for this little shopping vacation.

I had abandoned the front seat to the two girls, satisfied with spreading out alone in the back, reading an article on Ray Harryhausen in Cinemafantastique, when Lizzie hit a pothole that, had I not been buckled in, would have propelled me into the front seat, upside down between her and Miranda. "Lizzie!" I complained. "You know, you can take the time to go around some of these potholes. The Galleria hasn't even opened yet."

Miranda paused from scanning Lizzie's CD case to study me. "Gordo," she sighed at me, as if she were trying to explain something to a three-year-old. A very stupid three-year-old.

Lizzie held up her hand, with her palm to Miranda, signalling that she would handle this. "Gordo," she took over, her eyes never leaving the road in front of her. "You saw today's paper, right?" She weaved constantly and expertly between lanes of traffic.

"Yeah," I replied. After a pause, I continued, "So?"

She gave me her own remorseful sigh, as if thinking she shouldn't have to explain this. "Sooooo. Aeropostale has that crochet tie front cardigan for only twelve ninety-nine, and there's no way Brittany Novak is getting there before me."

"You know, you have a VISA," I reminded her. "You could try--" I was interrupted by the undercarriage taking a pounding as it was jarred by another pothole. "Ho ho, McGuire! Good job! Thought you might miss that one, for a second."

"Grrrrr," she growled at me from behind the wheel, her attention focused on the road ahead.

* * *

Late that afternoon, on the way back to Miranda's house, we stopped by her church, for her to give confession. She picked up her purse from the floorboard and turned to Lizzie as she opened her door. "You guys want to come in?"

Lizzie was hesitant. "Um….I…uh…I dunno."

"Come on," I encouraged her, actually eager to visit the cathedral again. "I'll go with you."

She inhaled deeply, then let the breath out, and nodded. "Okay," she agreed quietly.

The doors leading to the narthex were twelve feet high and, even though I'm not Catholic, of course, I've never been able to help my feeling of awe, whenever I stepped into the nave of Miranda's cathedral. The architecture was just awesome. Mighty marble columns pointed the way down the length of the vast chamber. Sparkling chandeliers flanked the glistening blue stone, hanging from a ceiling that lifted a hundred and ten feet above us, and drawing the eye to the high altar.

Lizzie and I quietly slipped into a pew in the back, while Miranda continued to the altar rail, alone. She knelt solemnly in front of the altar and bowed her head for a moment, then rose and entered the confessional booth, closing the door behind her. Silence threatened to envelop us, and you had to strain to hear the whoosh of cool air entering the room from vents behind us.

After a moment, I noticed Lizzie fidgeting nervously, twisting the ring on her right index finger. I reached out, took her right hand in mine, and used my finger to draw a heart on the inside of her palm. I know what you're thinking, and you're wrong. Drawing the heart on the palm was something that Lizzie and I had done for each other since pre-school, only back then, we used crayons, instead of our fingers. It was our secret sign to each other; it meant, "I'm thinking of you."

She repeated the gesture in my palm, but smiled sadly at me when she said, "I think this was a mistake." She stood up and crossed her arms, tugging on the sleeves of her T-shirt as she left the nave and stepped back into the parking lot, those monstrous doors slowly swinging shut behind her. A moment later, after a brief glance to the confessional booth, I followed her.

She had already climbed back into her mom's SUV, and I took Miranda's place, next to her. I propped my elbow on the ledge just inside the closed window and said nothing. After a couple of minutes, she spoke, haltingly. "Gordo? You're supposed to tell everything in confession, right? I mean, you can't hold anything back, or it doesn't do any good, right?"

"I'm no expert," I reminded her. "But, yeah, I think. I mean, about sins…you've committed…and stuff. Yeah."

"And with Catholics, it's not just what you do, it's what you think about doing. Right?"

I struggled with the answer. "I don't know…probably, I guess. Why are you asking this?"

"Do you…?" She wouldn't look at me as she spoke; she just tapped the key ring hanging from the ignition. "Do you think, maybe, Miranda has told her priest about me, last summer?"

"Why would she do that, Lizzie?"

And now, Lizzie looked into my eyes. "She wanted to kill Kate, didn't she?"

I sat there for a moment, unable to think of a response. "I don't think she…" I started, but then faltered. "Yeah." And I couldn't hold Lizzie's gaze. "Yeah. But she was right, Lizzie."

But Lizzie shook her head. "That's not the point. She has to confess that. She has to. Or, she goes to hell."

Her gaze was firmly on me, and I had suddenly developed an overpowering urge to clean my fingernails. I mean, it was just Miranda's…belief system…that said that. But, then, that's what we were talking about, right? Her **belief** that she'd be condemned, if she didn't confess. "She wouldn't have to mention anything about you," I reminded her, without looking up. "You know that."

"If you were Miranda, how would you explain how you felt about Kate, without mentioning me?" she pressed. "And remember, you can't lie."

As I looked up to turn to face her, I saw Miranda leaving the church, to join us. "Lizzie, you can't blame Miranda."

"I don't blame Miranda," she assured me, her voice barely above a sigh. Both of us were watching Miranda now, as she approached the car. After a tortuous moment of silence, she continued. "I love Miranda. I hate myself. Because I put Miranda in an impossible situation."

I had to swallow my response, as Miranda opened the back door behind me and climbed in, angry and frustrated that I had no chance to set Lizzie straight, without arousing Miranda's suspicions about our discussion.

"Hey, guys!" Miranda chirped. "Why didn't you stick around?"

"I got cold," Lizzie flashed a dazzling smile to the back. "They run the a.c. too hard in there." She looked ahead to the cathedral as she turned the key in the ignition. "But I always thought your church was so…beautiful."

"It's okay, I guess," Miranda shrugged.

I rubbed my forehead. I was getting a headache.

As she pulled out of the parking lot, Lizzie popped a Smashing Pumpkins CD into the player, and we were serenaded by "Tonight, Tonight."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: I own the rights to none of the characters in this story, even the characters that I created. If Disney wants to film this story and show it every year at Christmas, they have my permission.

**Author's note**: Rather than going back and padding Chapter 1, we'll just make Chapter 2 out of it, with a full-fledged update.

* * *

We had three big surprises awaiting us that night, but of course, at the time, we were completely unaware of that. Hence, our surprise.

"I don't understand," I told Miranda, as I climbed out of the SUV in Lizzie's driveway. The garage was empty. "Joey Kelley has played drums since third grade. I **thought** you were looking for a drummer."

"Gordo!" Miranda protested, tossing her purse over her shoulder, as she followed Lizzie and me up the walk. "Joey Kelley has been _awful_ at it, since third grade, too. Plus, he drools. I can't have a drooler, for a drummer."

"It's not his fault, Miranda," Lizzie chastised her, while fiddling with the keys to unlock her front door. "I think it's genetic. Have you seen his little sister?" She was having a tough time with the key, struggling to turn it.

"The boy is a saliva factory," Miranda insisted. "The first three rows will have to wear aprons. No. Just…no. Witness my foot being put down."

"Well, if you want….Look," I placed two fingers on top of the doorknob. "You have to exert a little pressure here, on top."

Immediately, the latch clicked, and the door swung open. Lizzie gaped at me. "How did you know that?"

I shrugged as I entered the foyer ahead of the girls. "Uh, that's one of my powers."

Lizzie shouldered the shopping bag that she had been balancing in her other hand, and said, "You guys go on in; I'll just drop these in my room." She climbed the stairs, while Miranda and I made our way to the darkened living room, continuing our discussion. The house was apparently deserted.

"All I'm saying is, you've got a gig a week from Friday, and you still--" I stopped dead in my tracks, after turning on the overhead light in the den. Miranda bumped into me. We had met our first surprise.

Matt and Melina were lying together on the sofa, arms wrapped around each other, and lips tight. Well, that's not…entirely true. Actually, Melina's right hand was soldered to Matt's ass, and one of Matt's hands was…well, I couldn't really see where it was. I couldn't resist grinning a little through my shock, as Matt broke their liplock and glanced up at us, his eyes glassy, and his forehead smeared with faint smudges of lipstick. Now that he had moved his head, I could see a little more of Melina under him, and I couldn't help but notice that she had started to grow up. In fact, she was beyond starting. Actually, I had to remind myself that she was only fourteen. Her shirt had ridden up her bare belly, and I now I had a view of Matt's missing hand, which was hidden under the bottom of that knit top. I heard Miranda gasp behind me. "Heh," I said. "Hey, Matt. What's up?"

I felt Miranda poke me in the small of my back. Neither of them made a move to disentangle themselves, although Melina raised her left hand up to twirl a finger through Matt's hair. "I thought we were alone, Mattie…" she told him, ignoring me.

"I did, too," he said, watching us, then looking down at her briefly. "And don't call me Mattie." He lowered his head to kiss her again, briefly, before Miranda, still behind me, cleared her throat pointedly. "Guys," he sighed. "Could there possibly be just one Friday night, when you guys aren't over here, watching videos?"

Miranda nudged around me and crossed her arms over her chest. "Oh, this is much better than watching any--"

But she was interrupted by Lizzie, pounding down the stairs. "Guys, I call dibs on first episode!" I could hear her at the bottom of the stairs, and turned to the lovebirds on the couch.

"Uh, guys, you wanna, uh…?" I was hoping they'd take the hint and disengage, but in response, Matt did something under that blouse, and Melina squealed. _Oh, I so did **not** need this_.

Lizzie was rounding the folding doors and entering the den. "Mine has a short season, so I…wanted…to…" and everything died out with that, as she finally saw Matt and Melina. Miranda and I blocked her view of the full tableau, but she could see enough. "What are you doing here?" she blurted, and then, noticing the lipstick on Matt's face, she said, "And **what**…are you **doing**, here?" Lizzie was bouncing up and down on the tips of her toes, trying to see over my and Miranda's shoulders. "Matt! You tard! You're making **out**, with **Melina**?"

"Give it a rest, Strawberry Shortcake," Matt replied, and kissed Melina on the tip of her nose, and Melina giggled in reply.

"I thought you two were going to a movie, with Mom and Dad?" Lizzie pressed.

"Oh, that," Melina addressed her first words to us, but never taking her eyes off Matt. "I wasn't feeling well, and so--"

"Like I believe that," Lizzie interrupted sarcastically. She tried unsuccessfully to squeeze between Miranda and me, then gave up and stuck one arm between us and snapped her fingers. "Well, up. Out! Matt, you know Friday nights belong to me." When he didn't get up, her expression changed from exasperation to almost concern. "Please?"

"No big, Lizzie," Miranda consoled her. "We can crash at my house."

Lizzie turned to me, as if to see which way I was leaning. I shrugged and said, "Yeah, it'll be cool, Lizzie. We can stop off on the way and pick up pizza."

Lizzie looked for a moment like she might continue the discussion with Matt, on her own, but then her shoulders dropped a little bit, and she said, "Yeah, okay. Whatever." She picked up the DVD boxes from the table behind us where we had left them that morning, and started toward the front door without us. "But at least half of it's Hawaiian." She paused for a moment and watched Matt with a sad look in her eye, as if she wanted to tell him something, but then thought better of it. She opened the door and stepped out into the front yard, leaving the open door behind her.

Matt looked up at us. "Thanks, guys. She can be such a bitch, sometimes."

Miranda reminded him, "She can be such a great sister, sometimes, too."

Matt glanced down, as if a little bit embarrassed about what he'd said. "Yeah, well. Maybe."

I raised my eyebrows. "Hey, uh, Matt. You, uh, need a…_hand_, there?"

Melina giggled again, and said, "My, aren't you the cunning linguist?"

I looked up for a moment in confusion, my brow furrowed, and almost didn't hear Matt answer, "No thanks, bro. Got it covered."

"Let's go, Casanova," Miranda said, as she shoved me toward the door. I followed her lead, without resistance.

By the time we arrived on the front porch, Lizzie was already in the SUV, starting the engine. I stopped for a moment, at the top of the steps. Miranda, who had reached the bottom of the steps, now turned to look back up at me.

"You know," I pondered. "A guy could take that two ways."

Miranda didn't have to give it much thought, before nodding. "Yeah," she agreed. "But knowing Melina, she probably only meant it one way." Then she left me, alone, to join Lizzie.

I studied that for a second, and then nodded. "Yeah," I reassured myself. "She's a nice girl." I descended the steps.

* * *

We pulled into Miranda's driveway, armed with a pizza and three DVD box sets. The pizza was half-pineapple (Lizzie's choice) and half-anchovies (Miranda's choice). Gordo, of course, didn't get a choice. As for the DVD's, each of us had picked a television series for our viewing pleasure. Lizzie had selected season one of Laguna Beach, of course; Miranda had insisted on Buffy, season seven, while I had scooped up Three Stooges.

And waiting in the driveway was surprise number two.

Leaning against the hood of his Bugatti, was Ethan Craft, bouncing a golf ball up and down off his golf club, as if he were Tiger Woods. We had always said Kate's dad was rich, but Ethan's dad was nasty rich, the kind of rich that you only get from selling your soul to the Devil, or starting up a dot com. Ethan's dad had given him the Bugatti as a reward for receiving an early scholarship offer from Florida State, after he had led North Hillridge to the state double-A championships. He snapped up the golf ball with his free hand when he saw us pulling up, and tossed it into the passenger seat.

We piled out of the Cherokee and greeted Ethan, whom we had last seen at the beginning of break, at the end of the previous week. "Lizzie!" he held his arms out wide, and wrapped her in a bear hug, as if we were at our twenty-year reunion. He tapped Miranda on her upper arm, and chuckled heartily, "Randa! Lookin' good, my doll!"

Miranda gave Ethan a sardonic grin, rubbed her arm, and said, "Whatever," which went right over Ethan's head. Miranda had gone through a really tough time, when we were sophomores, in an adventure we usually called the Tale of the Smiling Dachshund, where she had finally been forced to put her crush on Ethan behind her, and it still tugged on her heart a little bit, every time Ethan flirted with her. It had taken a long time for her to accept that flirting was **all** it was, to Ethan, and I don't think she ever reached the point where she could enjoy it, and flirt back, like Lizzie had learned to do. I think it always continued to hurt her, and I don't think that she ever _truly_ got over Ethan, despite all her protests to the contrary.

But Ethan, true to form, noticed none of that. It wasn't his fault, or anything. Ethan wouldn't have hurt Miranda intentionally, for the world. But he had no clue that Miranda felt anything for him; he never did. There were a lot of things Ethan had no clue about. Florida State was in for a big surprise.

"Gor-Don!" He cheered, extending his hand toward me. "My man!"

"Eee-Than!" I returned the favor, shaking his hand.

"What, um," Miranda began, tossing her hair back. "What's the occasion?"

Ethan looked confused for a moment, then said, "Oh, yeah. I came by to ask you something."

Lizzie scratched her head briefly, before asking, "Um, Ethan? You do know that Miranda is over at my house, like, every Friday night, right?"

"Yeah," he nodded.

We waited a moment, hoping he would explain why he was waiting in Miranda's driveway, if he _knew_ that Miranda would be at Lizzie's, but realistically, if one of us hadn't said something, this would be the end of my story, because we'd **still** be standing in Miranda's driveway, to this day.

"So," Miranda said, her hands out to her side. "I'm here."

It was Ethan's turn to scratch his head. "Yeah, well, it's kind of embarrassing. Uh…I kind of…sort of heard that…you, uh, lost your drummer. For Dark Journey, I mean."

"Yeah, Ethan," she reassured him. "I know that's what you meant."

"Well, um…" He suddenly seemed intensely interested in his golf club, but finally worked up the nerve to look up at her. "I happen to be a little familiar with…the black arts of percussion."

Miranda took a small step back and raised her eyebrows in astonishment. "You…?"

"Heck, yeah," Ethan exclaimed, growing excited. "When I was eleven, I wanted to be the next John Bonham. When my dad found out, he got me a set of Rolands."

All of that meant nothing to me, but Miranda's eyes bugged out, just a little. "No shit," she whispered. "Really?"

"Yeah," he told her, then grinned sheepishly. "Took me a year and a half to learn how to play them all."

Miranda laughed aloud, then put a hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry," she said, but she was still laughing.

"Nah, it's okay. It was funny." He shrugged. "But I got better."

"Uh huh," she smiled.

"So, uh, I was sort of thinking to myself, Hey! Miranda needs a drummer. I'm a drummer! So, what if--"

"Oh, Ethan," she told him, giving him a sorrowful look, her laughter from a moment ago vanished. "Oh, Ethan, I don't know…" She looked to us out of the corner of her eye, for support, but from our position behind Ethan, we were giving her our what-are-you-crazy look.

"What is it?" he asked, concerned. "Is it the dark look? You think I can't be dark. I can be dark. I can be **goth**. They'll call me Dark Ethan, the Darkest of the Dark. Darth Vader will have nothing on me. The Undertaker will run, screaming for cover. Martha Stewart will-"

"No," Miranda put up her hands, and shook her head. "It's…not that…"

"Well, what, then?" he pressed her.

"Well….." she looked around, her mouth working, struggling for something to say, and her eyes finally settled on "Your car. It's your car."

Ethan glanced at his car. "What? The Bugatti?"

"Yeah!" Miranda said, warming up to her argument. "Yeah, uh, see, Dark Journey is kind of a…counter culture band, and your car…well, it just…screams preppy." Behind Ethan, Lizzie and I looked at each other, and shook our heads in bewilderment.

He studied his car for a moment. "Really?"

Miranda sighed sympathetically, but nodded. "Yeah. Sorry."

Ethan shrugged. "I'll dump it."

"What?" Miranda blurted, only half a second before Lizzie and I could echo "What?" from near the rear of the car.

"Yeah," he shrugged again. "I'll get my dad to sell it. What do I care? Just a car. I'll get a motorcycle. Motorcycle's counter culture, right?"

"Huh?" Miranda asked, distracted. "Yeah. No! Wait! What are you, a loon?" she chastised him. "You can't get rid of that car! That's a frickin' **awesome** car! What are you thinking?"

"Well, I _was_ thinking I wanted to be your drummer. But now, I'm thinking maybe you don't want me." The realization seemed to hurt his feelings.

Miranda stepped closer to him, and put her hands on his shoulders. "Nooooo, Ethan, no. It's…more complicated…" she paused, maybe hoping that Ethan would understand, but since _I_ was just beginning to twitch to what was happening, it was going to be a long time, before Ethan came around. "Okay," she sighed, licking her lips. "Uh, look." She dropped her hands from his shoulders. "Um…we're practicing tomorrow at one, at Candy Southern's house. You know where that is, right?"

"Yeah," Ethan nodded. "I dated her little sister, last semester."

"Right," Miranda agreed. "I remember now. Well, stop by, and we'll see--"

"Yes!" Ethan spun around, pumping one fist.

"**We'll see**…how you play," she promised reluctantly.

"Awesome, Miranda, my doll!" He popped open the door to his car. "I'll bring the Rolands!"

"No!" she overruled him. "Just…just use the set we have, for tomorrow. Then…we'll see."

He dropped behind the wheel, and slammed the door, but even then, its closing was almost silent.

"Later, Gor-Don!" He called to us, as he backed out of the driveway. "It's been a blast, Lizzie, my sweet!"

Lizzie waved at him, as he peeled down the street, then turned on Miranda once he was out of sight. "Miranda!" she called to her best friend, but Miranda already had her back to us, walking toward the front door. Lizzie rushed to catch up with her, and turned her around to face us. "Miranda! What's that all about?" she asked. "The drummer of your dreams falls into your lap, and you're acting like you don't want him."

Miranda wouldn't look at us, was instead looking down to the side. "I don't," she told Lizzie quietly.

"What?" Lizzie asked, not because she hadn't heard, but because she didn't understand.

"I don't," she repeated, finally looking at Lizzie. She brushed at her eyes, but they were dry. "I don't want him…in the band."

"But, wh--" Lizzie stopped, then reached up to cup Miranda's face in her hands. "Oh, baby," she cooed, but Miranda's eyes were now again, off to the side. "I know, it's hard, but baby…Miranda…think about how much of your time, your soul, your…. **you** that you've put into this. This band. You're two weeks away from your big moment, and you had no drummer, and now, the hand of God has reached down and placed this big gift in front of you, and you're going to say, 'No, thank you, big guy.' Well, color me stunned, because the Miranda Sanchez that I know would grab this chance to live her dream."

"Well," Miranda sighed. "I guess we…_should_…listen to what he has," she suggested shyly, turning her eyes back to Lizzie.

"Couldn't hurt," Lizzie pointed out.

"Yeah…. And he doesn't drool, so he's kind of got that big mojo goin' for him."

"Darn tootin'!" Lizzie nodded emphatically.

"And," Miranda continued, her thoughts turning more inward. "He'll certainly draw in the female half of the paying audience."

Lizzie pursed her lips. "He's a chick magnet."

"Okay, Nurse Lizzie," she smiled briefly. "My semi-annual self-pity spell is about wrapped up, now."

"Okay," Lizzie told her, kissing her on the cheek. "I'll put you down on my I-pod for next October.

"Hate to break it up, ladies," I mentioned. "But pizza's chilling."

I reached in the Cherokee, and got the goodies, and with Miranda carrying the pizza, and Lizzie and I each holding a handful of DVD, we strolled from the car to the house, side by side, Miranda between us, our arms draped over her shoulders.

* * *

We had spent the first hour eating pizza and watching an episode of Laguna Beach, with Lizzie and Miranda swooning over Trey and Steven, and hissing whenever Kristen put in an appearance, and…well, I can't remember all their names. We spent the second hour downing popcorn swirls while an army of Slayers got wiped out by an ubervamp, with Lizzie screaming every time the Caligari wannabe showed up. For the third hour, it was strawberry frosted pop-tarts, and I was chortling out loud at the adventures of Moe, Larry, and Curly. Miranda and Lizzie sat on either side of me on the couch, totally disinterested. "Oh, wait a minute," I nudged Lizzie in the ribs, then laughed so hard, I started coughing. "This is the best part! This is when the bull comes running through--"

"I can't believe you think this is funny," Miranda shook her head at me.

"What are you talking about?" I asked, clearing my throat. "This is Moe. And Larry, and Curly. Not Shemp. Not Joe DeRita. Curly. These guys **created** American cinematic comedy. There'll never be another…Three Stooges." I got a little choked up at the moment, and sniffled.

"And not a day goes by, that I don't--"

"I don't…want…to hear it, Sanchez," I cautioned her, holding one finger up, but eyes glued to the screen.

"Well, I'm gonna check my blog," she announced, rising from the couch for the computer desk in the corner behind us.

Lizzie uncrossed her legs and stood up and stretched. "I'll join you," she said.

"Heathens," I whispered as they left me alone, then laughed as Curly performed the shuffle.

I could hear Lizzie and Miranda in the background, groaning and laughing alternately at the comments left behind by friends and strangers who had visited Miranda's weblog. I was only half-listening, but my attention was grabbed, when I heard Miranda say, "What the hell is this?"

Lizzie said something. I'm not sure, but I think it was "Huh. Not bad, Miranda," to which Miranda replied, "Shut up."

"Gordo!" Lizzie called to me. "Pause it, and come over and check this out."

Intrigued, I paused the DVD, and left the sanctuary of the couch to join them in front of Miranda's computer. On the screen were some of the comments left by visitors. And here was the final surprise.

Hey, sweetie! Missed you last night at Cumberland's! Call me! brightpinklady

You're so wrong. Best steel guitar is the Superior, hands down. JoEyAcE

Hey, Miranda. I know you don't know who I am, but I think about you all the time. Whenever I see you in the halls at school, I feel like my heart is going to jump out of my chest. I've wanted to tell you for the longest time about how much I dream about you, every night. Your eyes are so Beautiful, and your voice is so Tender, and you live life with such a Passion, that I wish I could know you better. You probably wouldn't care about me, as a guy, if you knew who I was, but that's okay. I mean, if you could love me, like I love you, I'd be in paradise, but I'd settle for being your friend, if that wasn't possible, just to see you and listen to your voice, up close, rather than far away, like I do now. So, anyway, I just wanted you to know that if you're ever down and feeling funky, that someone out there loves you, and wants all the best for you. I hope you have a lot of success with your band. In fact, I know you will, and I'll be there, for every performance. You are so beautiful. SecreTAdmireR

"So?" Lizzie asked me, smiling mischievously and chewing on one fingernail. "What do you think? Miranda has a secret beau?"

"I don't know what to think," Miranda said uncertainly from her seat in front of the monitor, between us, answering Lizzie's question for me. "It's probably a joke."

"I don't think so," Lizzie countered. "Admittedly, the ending is a little bit stalkery, but the first part of it's so sweet. And sincere. It's **gotta** be real."

"It's **gotta** be a freshman," Miranda shook her head. "That would be bad." She looked up at me. "That would be bad, right?"

I read the message again. What I said was, "I think someone's fallen for you, big time. Would that be so bad?" What I _thought_ was, "_Oh, this just can't be good_."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: I own the rights to none of the characters in this story, even the characters that I created. If Disney wants to film this story and show it every year at Christmas, they have my permission.

Life is Good and All Fall Down words and music by Lalaine, Isaacs and Lazaroff. True to Me and You Wish words and music by Isaacs and Lazaroff. All songs copyright 2003 LVP Entertainment.

**Author's note**:

Sorry for the delay in getting Chapter 3 up. We've had many things going on behind the scenes, but the pace should pick up a little, now.

I can't begin to express how grateful I feel toward Slightly Obsessed, for all the help she's provided on this story, and everything surrounding it. Mmm-whaa!

Slightly Obsessed: _Hard to believe that as lighthearted as this seems at the moment, you are probably going to bring it somewhere really dark_.

Dr. Strange: _Moi?_

I sat at my desk, in front of my laptop, that next morning, Saturday. My eyes were locked on the tiny digital clock in the bottom right corner of the screen.

**9:56 AM**

I hadn't been able to get that bizarre post on Miranda's blog out of my mind. Who posts a comment on a girl's public website, professing your love for her, and then not letting anyone know who you were? Of course, it could be entirely innocent, some sophomore or freshman, as Miranda had suggested, with a crush on a newly-blossoming superstar singer. Perhaps someone in our class, or even a senior, who's had his eye on her for a year, or more. Miranda would certainly find that romantic.

**9:57 AM**

Or it could be something more…sinister. There were plenty of candidates, plenty of suspects to go around. The first one that popped to mind was Ryan, dark journey's former drummer, who had played Miranda liked an instrument, before dumping her. He and his girlfriends had been playing several cruel tricks on Miranda in the last couple of weeks, even posting her cell on an adult web site, forcing her to change her number. She was just starting to forget about Ryan, and didn't need any more of their taunting.

Then there were any number of people whom we didn't really know, but posted, some regularly, on the blog, like that guy at Mt. Carmel, over in San Diego. And that creep who said he'd be in line for Miranda? Was I remembering right? Where was he from? I couldn't remember. And now my headache was back.

**9:58 AM**

And who's to say it had to be a guy, especially if this was someone toying with her? It could just as easily have been one of the cheerleaders. God knows, they had a reason to hate us. And, hell, since it was the Internet, it could even be Kate, stretching out her claws from a thousand miles away.

**9:59 AM**

I had to read that entry for myself; study it, and Miranda's whole blog. The problem was, I hadn't visited the site for over a month, once the motherboard on my old laptop got fried. Fortunately, it happened about two weeks before my seventeenth birthday, and my parents got me a new one. But I had lost a shitload of links in my Favorites, and didn't really want to admit to Miranda that I hadn't been to her blog since. And now, I had forgotten the address.

I knew she was using a directory on a web site that her uncle's company owned, and I thought I remembered the name, something like timeline dot com, but that was coming up blank.

**10:00 AM**

So now I found myself parked in front of my laptop, patiently waiting for ten o'clock, when I could safely assume that Lizzie would be awake on a Saturday morning.

I flipped open my cell and used the speed dial to call Lizzie. After about five rings, she answered, and I knew I had misjudged. She had been asleep.

"Lizzie?" I said. "I didn't mean to wake you up."

"No, it's okay," she replied groggily, and I could picture her brushing her hair out of her eyes. "What's up?"

"Listen, um, do you know the address for Miranda's blog?"

"Sure. Why?" she asked, and followed it with a long yawn.

"I just wanted to see if her secret admirer had posted anything else."

"Really? Hunh. I thought it was you."

"Is that right?" I flirted back with her. "That's odd, because I've just been assuming it was you."

"Don't think so, Gordo," she whispered, and I could hear the smile in her voice. "You're the lesbian in our trio, remember?"

I let her chuckle at her own remark, and then prompted her with, "Timeline? Right?"

"Um, let's see," Lizzie whispered, then yawned again. "Uh, no. It's chronologyproject, one word."

"Com or org?" I prodded.

"Com. And then, one of those slash thingies, and then, uh, mirandasworld, of course. One word, no apostrophe." I typed the address in my web browser, as she recited it to me.

"Yeah, that's it," I said quietly, more to myself than to Lizzie. I watched Miranda's blog pop up on my screen. "Thanks." When she didn't reply, I continued, "Going to watch them practice this afternoon?"

"Yeah, sure. If you'll pick me up?"

"A little before one." We hung up, and I studied the comments on Miranda's blog. Miranda had posted a reply since last night.

It said simply:

Who are you? How do you know me? mirandasworld

Her post had been made that morning, and there had been no replies to it. I read through everything on her site, and the only thing I learned was just how vicious some of those people, particularly Ryan and Sandra, had been to Miranda, since my last visit.

I picked up Lizzie shortly before practice was scheduled to start. She came out to the car wearing a light blue tank top and a peasant skirt that came down to just above her knees, and boots that came up to just below her knees. Magically, the skirt seemed to both cling to her thighs and flow around them at the same time. There was a _lot_ of magic about Lizzie. You learned that.

"Good morning, Mister Gordon," she said, and crinkled up her nose at me in that sexy way that she knew nothing about.

"Good morning, Miss McGuire," I returned, as I nudged the car into reverse and backed out of her driveway. I was leaving our neighborhood when Lizzie snapped open her purse, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

That was a bad sign. It was the signal that today was going to be one of the not-so-good days.

You see, Lizzie had some…bad experiences the previous summer. And she was seeing a counselor that no one but Miranda and I knew about. But it was difficult to get Lizzie to talk about all that stuff, so she had this tendency to internalize all the fear and anger, instead of dealing with it. And that led to days, every couple of months, where those black emotions would sort of boil over and she'd end up taking it out on the people she thought could understand, like me, and Miranda.

And usually, a cigarette was the first sign that she was having a difficult time, and that we should maybe batten down the hatches. When Lizzie vented, she didn't do it violently, or explosively. Instead, it was quiet, bitter. She could say things to us that cut, and then bled, and didn't stop hurting for a couple of days. But after she said them, she'd start crying, and apologize, and blame the prescription that her counselor had given her.

She only smoked rarely, maybe one cigarette a month, both because of the health concerns, and because she didn't want her parents to smell the smoke on her. But they were always the precursor for a bad day ahead.

She flicked her lighter to ignite the cigarette, took a slow, luxurious drag, then dropped her head back against the seat and closed her eyes as she exhaled. "Just to calm my nerves."

_She always said that!_ I shook my head and rubbed my temple, but didn't say anything, and continued the drive to Candy's.

When we got there, the band was already warming up, and several of the members seemed quietly energized to learn that Miranda had found a potential drummer. Candy, though, had her concerns.

"Ethan?" Candy was asking Miranda. Candy was a senior at North Hillridge, the only NHH band member, other than Miranda. She had curly blonde hair, and her wardrobe considered of jeans of forty different colors, all of them tight, and low slung. "Ethan's not a drummer." She looked at me as we entered, waved and smiled flirtatiously, then asked me, "Is he?"

"Apparently, he is," I shrugged, and Lizzie and I made our way over to a battered old couch, lining one wall of the Southern's garage. "At least, if a set of Rolands says anything."

At hearing the name Rolands, Austin and Brody both stopped tuning their instruments and looked at each other. "Well," Trey, the bassist, said, while his amp warmed up. "Well, well, well. What's a Rolands doing, in our little band?"

"Guys, he—" Miranda started, but was interrupted by Candy.

"It's Ethan Craft," she explained. "His father is richer than, well, God."

"So, wait a minute," Bethany broke in, excitedly. Lizzie and I were just sitting next to each other on the couch, taking it all in. "So this guy has the most magnificent set in the San Diego metro, plus, he's got a Daddy Warbucks?"

"Guys, look," Miranda tried again, more forcefully this time. "Ethan is…. Don't get your hopes up. None of us had any clue he was a drummer. If I know one thing about Ethan, it's that he…kind of…goes through stages. He gets excited about something, and his dad buys it for him, and a month later, he's moved on to something else. He says he's had this set for years, but still…"

Her voice was drowned out by a loud knock on the doorframe of the garage. Standing in the open garage door was a tall lanky boy, with white facepaint, and painted on teardrop oozing from the side of each eye.

"Ethan?" Lizzie breathed next to me.

"Hey, Lizzie," he said to her in a low voice.

"Ethan?" Miranda said, incredulously. "What are you doing?"

It was immediately apparent what had happened. Ethan had taken her off-hand comment about dark journey being "counter-culture" to heart, and had dressed the part for his audition. That was just something she had blurted out, to dissuade Ethan, and now, she was going to pay for it. Trey was never going to let her live this one down.

"I'm here for practice." And then he sauntered, all part of his performance, through the garage, to take his place behind the old set of drums that Candy had dragged up from her basement. The other members of the band watched him tighten the cymbals, their eyes wide at the spectacle Ethan presented in make-up that was almost Kabuki. Lizzie and I grinned slyly at each other, now that Miranda's little ploy had backfired. At the back of the stage, Trey was clearly biting his lip, but I couldn't wait to get home and read what he was going to say on the blog.

"Well, uh," Miranda said, then sighed and took her place on stage, and picked up one of the electric guitars. "Do you know Night Like This?"

Ethan's only reply was, "Let's rock," and then he pounded out the prolog to the Cure song, and the others quickly joined in, with Brody singing lead.

And I was…surprised. Ethan was actually…not bad. I mean, not E Street Band fabulous, or anything, but…not bad. More importantly, dark journey was surprised.

"That was…good, Ethan," Candy breathed quietly, and Austin took a couple of steps across the platform to give Ethan a high five.

"Smackin', man," he congratulated Ethan.

"Thanks, dude," Ethan replied with a smile, his head bobbing. Then he seemed to remember his persona, and dropped the smile and gave Austin a somber expression. "I mean, uh, thanks."

"Ethan, I never knew you could play like that," Miranda told him.

"Me?" Ethan pointed a drumstick at himself. "I didn't know I played like that, either. I just play like I play."

"What the--?" Trey started to say in confusion, but then he caught sight of me in the background, waving at him, then shaking my head, signaling to him_, no, man, don't go there_.

Miranda took a deep breath, then said, "Well, how about one more, guys? Ethan, do you know Two Girls?"

"One of my favorites," he assured her, and they belted out another one. This time, he shined just a little bit better, and you could tell it was a song he was very familiar with.

As they were wrapping up their second song, I started yawning, realizing just how little sleep I had gotten last night. I knew that Candy usually kept a pot of coffee on the kitchen cabinet for these practices, so I stood up and told Lizzie, "I'm getting some coffee. You want some?" having to raise my voice to be heard.

She looked up at me for a moment, then shook her head and returned her attention to the music.

I entered the kitchen directly from the garage, and shut the door behind me, instantly muffling the music. It occurred to me that, although most of the band's Saturday practices were here at Candy's house, I had never met her parents, nor seen any evidence of them. Candy lived the life of a…free spirit. Sometimes, I even found myself wondering if she had parents.

I found the coffeemaker in its usual location, but it was empty. As I began opening cabinets, the door to the garage opened behind me, and I turned to see Lizzie stepping into the kitchen, and then shutting the door. "Changed my mind," she said.

"We're out of luck," I warned her, checking the next cabinet, with no success. "I'm going to have to make some."

"That's okay," she sighed and hopped up on the counter next to the refrigerator, crossing her feet at the ankles. "I like watching you."

I had peeked in two more cabinets before I reached Lizzie, sitting between the sink and the fridge. She was gently swinging her feet back and forth, the heels of her boots tapping the cabinet doors under her. I gently put a hand on her knees to stop her, so I could step in front of her.

"Oh. Sorry," she told me, then swished her lips back and forth just once, like Samantha Stephens in Bewitched.

I reached up to grasp the cabinet door handle just behind and to the right of her head. "I…um…" I couldn't open the door without bumping her head.

"Oops," she said, and ducked her head, giving me just the clearance I needed.

I carefully opened the cabinet and peered inside. Wouldn't you know it? The coffee was on the bottom shelf, near the back. I don't how to put this—I've kinda avoided the subject so far, but—I'm kind of…short. I had no way of reaching that coffee can, even standing on tiptoe, other than to stand between Lizzie's legs, and even then, the stretch would bring my face close enough to…well, touch her. And, yeah, we were close friends and all, since diapers, but this was close enough to be uncomfortable. She didn't seem uncomfortable in the least, but that was only because she didn't recognize the electricity of our position, our situation.

She looked at me from head-ducking position. "Um, Gordo?"

"Oh! Uh…" I exhaled the breath I had been holding. "Coffee's back there." I pointed. "Can you, uh…"

"Oh! Sure!" She twisted at the waist to see behind her, then raised her left arm up, across her body, stretching up and out to reach the coffee in the back.

And that action of stretching up and behind her, caused her breasts to lift up from behind her tank top, and offer themselves to me. My eyes saucered, and I could feel my blood flowing as the bottom hem of her top rode up the front of her belly, revealing just the thinnest strip of bare midriff. From the garage, the band continued their latest rendition, but the only instruments that made their way through the exterior wall were the pounding of the drums, and the deep throaty thrumming of the bass, and the scent of Lizzie's Obsession filled my brain. How fortunate I was that she had no idea what she was doing to me, at that moment.

Also how fortunate I was that my eyes returned to her face, just as she turned back to me, in triumphant possession of the coffee.

"Now, Maestro," she said, handing me the can. "Work your magic."

I poured the coffee in the filter and then added water to the machine, and settled back to wait, my forearms perched on the counter, on the other side of the sink from Lizzie, making sure to hide the front of my jeans by leaning against the cabinets.

"So, um," Lizzie said after a moment of silence. "How are you and Vanessa doing?"

Vanessa was a sophomore that I had been dating, for about the last three weeks. I had finally found a girlfriend who was secure enough to allow me to continue to have two other girls as my best friends, and I was determined to hold on to this one. We were going out that night. "Pretty good," I informed Lizzie. "Pretty good."

"Pretty good," she repeated, and seemed to be mulling it over. "How long you guys been seeing each other? Six weeks?"

"Um, three, you know, exclusively."

"But you went out with her, before that."

"Yeah. Sure."

"So six weeks," she prodded.

I shrugged. "I guess."

The deep beat from the garage had ceased. There was silence between us for a few moments, and then Lizzie said, "Have you fucked her?"

_Here it is_, I thought, that biting side of Lizzie that I cautioned you about earlier. I turned to her. "_What_?"

She shrugged. "It's just a question. Doesn't scare you, does it? The question, I mean. We're best friends. Best friends talk about this stuff, right?"

The timer on the coffeemaker went off, just as the band started up another song. I pulled the carafe out and poured a cup. "I don't," I told the coffee.

"Oh," she said quietly. "Sorry." But the thing of it is, I wasn't sure she was sorry, at all.

I handed her the cup I had already poured, and looked deeply into her eyes. "Sorry, I…I don't know where they keep the creamer."

She looked deeper into my eyes as she took the cup from me and said, "Don't want any."

I turned to pour myself a cup, and she slid off the counter while my back was turned and sat at the kitchen table, her back to wall.

I piled in about twice as much sugar as I normally take into my coffee, then took one sip. Bitter.

"Gordo," Lizzie called to me from the table. "I need to tell you something." I raised my eyebrows questioningly, but said nothing. "I, um, last month, I received an offer for a summer study program, at a fashion design school."

"Last month?" I asked, my voice subdued. "When were you going to tell me?"

"I'm telling you now. I've been…thinking about it. My parents are ready to pay for it, it's a tremendous opportunity, and it's only offered to eight or nine students every year."

"And….?" I pressed, wondering where the other shoe was.

"I'm thinking about accepting," she said.

"Thinking about it?" I repeated. "What's to think about? You'll never get another opportunity like that."

She studied the side of the refrigerator and took a sip of her coffee and then said, "The school is in Paris, Gordo. It's called Mod'Art International."

_Oh. _

I didn't know what I was thinking. Some fashion design program at UCLA, I guess, where Miranda and I could drive up to the big city, every other weekend, and the three of us could hang out, and sightsee. Gonna be a little more difficult to drive to Paris, twice a month.

"Oh." For a full sixty seconds, she wasn't looking at me. "For three months?"

"Yeah," she replied, then looked up at me across the kitchen when she said, "Maybe longer."

And the implications of what she was telling me were just then hitting me. "So, you're not coming back? For our senior year?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I mean, I won't know, until the summer program is over. But I could be invited to stay, with a scholarship. So…yeah. Maybe." I thought about that. "But I don't even know if I want to do this," she continued. "There are…things here…that I don't want to leave." She smiled sweetly, self-consciously. "I want to assemble with the Avengers forever, you know?" She searched my eyes. "What do I do?"

So many thoughts were exploding in my mind then. Three months, without Lizzie. That was bad enough, although no less than I had done to her, and Miranda, the year before. But then, beyond that, the possibility that I might not see her for a year, or more, other than the Holidays. I wasn't ready for that, was I? Lizzie, who had been a part of my life—a major part, almost the center of my life—for my **entire** life, now abruptly taken from me, from us. And when she returned—if she returned—she would be forever changed, I knew.

And yet, what a glorious opportunity. This could be her chance, her moment to shine. How could anyone here stand in her way, and live with themselves, afterward? If I encouraged her to forego the offer, and stay with me, and Miranda, she would resent me, hate me forever. I knew this day would come, when I would have to let Lizzie go. It just came a little too early for me.

"I think you should go," I told her, and she'll never know how much it hurt to tell her that, even though her head tilted to the side when she heard me say it, as if she had…expected…some other response. And she looked down, into her coffee. "It's your chance of a lifetime, Lizzie. I know what you can do, but I want you to show everyone else. I know you'll take the world by storm. And I don't think you should let this little town stand in your way."

She stood up, and as she turned her face away from me, and took another sip of coffee, her hair fell in front of her face, hiding her from me. She walked to the garage door, taking the coffee with her. "You really think that?" she said, still not facing me.

I rubbed my jaw and chin, realizing I had forgotten to shave that morning. "Yes," I said, and then stopped, before I could say anything else. She started to turn the doorknob, and I said, quietly, "No." But she heard me and turned to look up at me, and I could see a glistening film in her eyes.

"What?"

"No," I repeated. "Vanessa and I…haven't…made love." Lizzie's thoughts turned inward. "I just wanted my best friend to know that."

She nodded, and opened the door, and stepped through, into the garage, leaving me alone, in the kitchen. I turned back to face the sink, and heard the door close behind me, and I tossed my remaining coffee in the sink, and watched it swirl down the drain.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**: I own the rights to none of the characters in this story, even the characters that I created. If Disney wants to film this story and show it every year at Christmas, they have my permission.

Life is Good and All Fall Down words and music by Lalaine, Isaacs and Lazaroff. True to Me and You Wish words and music by Isaacs and Lazaroff. All songs copyright 2003 LVP Entertainment.

**Author's note**:

No Habla Espanol: _can someone translate the convo between Miranda and her dad, back on feb 20?_

Dr. Strange: _Check the forum._

* * *

I took a moment, then followed Lizzie back into the garage, to enjoy the new Dark Journey's practice. I joined her on the sofa, where she now had one leg curled up under her.

"Where's your coffee?" she asked. She had to yell, to be heard over Candy, on the bass, and Ethan's drums, while Bethany and Miranda belted out, "What About Love?"

I didn't trust my voice, so I just made a face, hoping to indicate to her that it was too bitter. She nodded, then returned her attention to the band, bobbing her head, and swaying gently back and forth.

And I just sat there, pretending to listen, but instead I was concentrating on Lizzie.

"Lizzie!" I called out to her, even though we were close enough to almost feel each other's breath. She turned back to me, her eyebrows raised in polite curiosity. "About that, earlier? I--"

"What?" she interrupted me.

I swallowed, then gave her a small wave. "Never mind!"

God, my timing sucked.

A couple of neighborhood kids, middle school students who had been attracted by the noise, had gathered in the garage door now, watching from the driveway.

The practice continued for another hour and a half, perhaps, and over the course of it, Ethan continued to impress. He had obviously never treated his drums as just another toy, and for the first practice in weeks, you could feel an electricity.

After the last song, everyone kind of collected around Ethan, Lizzie and I included. "Well, guys," Miranda asked the other band members. "What do you think?"

Candy reached up and playfully mussed up Ethan's hair, which made him duck instinctively. "I think we're ready to rock their world," she said.

Trey lifted his guitar off his shoulders. "Marry him if you have to, Miranda," he advised. "He's twenty times the drummer Ryan is."

I was willing to cut Trey some slack for that, because he had no idea of Miranda's past feelings for Ethan, but it still had to be embarrassing for her. But if so, she hid it admirably, as she kept everyone's attention focused on Ethan. "We'd love to have you, Ethan."

Ethan responded with his patented head bob, followed by, "Kewl, Miranda, my sweet."

"Oh, but Ethan? One thing? Lose the Kabuki makeup." She laughed gently. "It's so not us."

"Really?" he asked. "Thank God!" He pulled up the bottom of his black t-shirt and started violently scrubbing the white off, and the eyes of all four girls in his audience instantly gravitated to the star quarterback's washboard abs. "I think I'm getting an allergic reaction."

He was only partially successful in getting out from under the makeup. "I think I'd better head home, guys," he said as he weaved his way through the various instruments and cables that littered the floor of the makeshift stage. "I'll have some workers in my dad's company bring my drums over, before the next practice." He turned back to us before stepping out into the front yard, and flashed a thumbs up. "It's gonna be a blast, guys," and then he was gone.

Miranda waited until she heard the sound of Ethan's engine before she whooped and flew across the garage and leapt into my arms with a big bear hug, followed by a tight embrace of Lizzie, and a whirlwind tour of hugs from every band member. "It's gonna work, guys!" she screamed in relief. "It's finally gonna work!"

* * *

Miranda had gotten a lift from Brody and Bethany to practice, but they were going on to San Diego from Candy's, so she hitched a ride back home with Lizzie and I. Which was fine. I wanted to touch base with Miranda, anyway.

"So, uh," I called to her over my shoulder. "Given any thought to your secret admirer?"

I saw her look out the window, in my rearview mirror. "Not really," she replied somberly.

Lizzie huffed indignantly. "Gordo thinks you're in danger. His spider-sense is tingling."

"Not…danger," I protested. My eyes met Miranda's briefly, in the mirror. "I just think, it may not be what you think. It could be…someone…who's got…something else, in mind."

"Someone like Ryan, you mean," Miranda said pointedly.

"Someone like him, yeah."

Miranda gave a tiny shrug. "I don't know. I just assumed it was someone…goofing around. Not serious. It's not like anyone could admire _me_, from afar."

Lizzie huffed again, exasperated. "Yes. Thank you so much, Gordo."

I took advantage of being stopped by a traffic light to put a hand to my forehead. "What? I didn't mean it, that way. I'm just saying…you can't know what you're dealing with, on the Internet. You have to be…careful."

"Don't worry about it," Miranda said in a tiny voice, as she toyed with the miniature crucifix that always hung around her neck. "I know that post last night was just so much…bullshit, I guess."

Lizzie didn't say anything else on the subject, but her nose was flaring, and her lips were pursed, and she was shooting daggers at me, with her eyes.

_Fuck._

Our little tableau was interrupted by the car behind us, which was honking its horn, now that the traffic light had turned green.

I had just turned into our neighborhood, intending to go to Miranda's first, since she lived about two blocks away from Lizzie and me, when Lizzie, who had been scrounging through her purse, panicked. "Oh, my God," she breathed. "I'm out of gum."

She always, without fail, chewed a stick of gum, just before entering her house, any time she had smoked a cigarette beforehand, compulsive about removing any possibility of any hint of any trace of cigarette smoke. She looked up at me, her eyes wide. "Do you have any?" despite the fact that I never chewed gum. Then she turned to the back seat. "Miranda?"

"Yeah, I might," Miranda told her, tossing her own purse up to the front seat. "But it's probably double mint."

"That's okay," said Lizzie, who usually insisted on wintergreen. She rummaged through Miranda's purse for a moment, before pausing, just as I was pulling into the driveway. "What the hell is this?" she asked herself.

She pulled out a clear, plastic case, originally designed to hold a small sewing kit of needle and thread. But the sewing kit had been replaced, by a lone, double-edged razor.

"What?" Miranda called distractedly, but when she saw what Lizzie was holding, her eyes grew bigger, and she bounced toward Lizzie in the front. "Lizzie! Stop. Give me that!"

"Miranda?" I asked her, confused.

She looked at me, her eyes pleading. "It's not what you think. I promise. I haven't touched it, since that night. I would never do that."

"This is…just…" Lizzie shook her head.

"Guys! I use this. To remind me of how low I felt that night, okay? And what you guys did for me. The case has never been opened, I swear. But I need it. It's…a security blanket."

"This is one **hell** of a security blanket, Miranda!" Lizzie blurted. "A security blanket is a photo, or…or your crucifix, or…Jesus, a real blanket, but a _razor blade_? You can't--"

In response, Miranda deftly reached into the front seat and swiped Lizzie's purse off her lap. Lizzie tried to grasp the strap, but it slipped out from under her fingers. I was reduced to watching helplessly.

"Oh, that's rich, Lizzie, you lecturing me about security blankets." Miranda didn't have to dig far, before triumphantly pulling out Lizzie's lighter.

"What are you doing?" Lizzie asked her.

"You take my blanket? I take yours." And with her lips pursed defiantly at both of us (although I hadn't really argued with her), she forcefully swapped purses with Lizzie and opened her back door, on the passenger side.

She put one foot out, on the driveway. "I'm sorry, guys," she said quietly, not looking at us, looking instead out the door, toward the sanctuary of her home. "But you have to let me make my own decisions." She stepped out of the car, shut the door gently, and ran up the steps to her front door, and disappeared from view.

Lizzie looked toward me, her face so sad.

"I guess we both fucked up a little, here," I suggested.

Instead of agreeing with me, Lizzie said, "You could have supported me, just then."

"Maybe I would have," I countered, "if I thought you were right."

While I was backing out of the driveway, Lizzie started to respond. "Gordo…" she said, then sighed, thinking better of it. "Whatever. Look, take me to the mini-mart, first. I have to find gum."

We stopped at the little convenience store where Lizzie and I had bought comic books in the fourth grade, and I went in with her. I picked up a bottle of Tylenol, and noticed at the counter that Lizzie was purchasing not only a pack of gum, but a new lighter.

* * *

I had about an hour to burn, before prepping for my date with Vanessa, so I spent the time catching up on all that had happened at Miranda's World, her blog, in the two months or so since I lost my other laptop. A lot of drama had gone down, in those two months, mostly thanks to Ryan Malone.

Their breakup had been a pretty shaky time for Miranda.

Eventually, I had read through about nine or ten pages of journal entries, and just for the hell of it, I revisited the comments page for Thursday's entry. To my surprise, Miranda's mystery paramour had posted again, apparently at right about the same time that I had signed off this morning.

I know you, because I see you, every day, between 2nd and 3rd.  
And I'm nobody. Not like you. You're this...creator. You write, and you sing, and you give, I guess. I'm just a _hold on_ a consumer. I just take. I wish I could create things, like you do, like a poem, or something, but I'm pretty awful at that.  
I'm sorry, if I'm scaring you, or freaking you out or something. I didn't mean to, and I'll stop posting like this, if it's not right. I mean, I'll understand. I'll stop posting, but I'd never stop loving you.

My eyes narrowed.

_Smooth operator, aren't you? Do you know just what buttons to push with Miranda, and if so, how? Who are you? What are you really after?_

* * *

I had been seeing Vanessa Echols for several weeks. She was a perky sophomore with the blackest hair, and bright blue eyes that sparkled electrically. She was fun, and flirtatious, and didn't mind showing everyone how much she liked me. In fact, it was something that took a little getting used to. I've never been one to…gush over a girl, and I kind of liked to keep a low profile, but after seven or eight dates, I was beginning to loosen up and enjoy myself.

Oh, and the best part? I was an inch taller than her.

We spent the first part of our date that evening actually playing Liverpool with her parents, an involved card game, that takes about an hour and a half, giving the Echols the opportunity to "get to know" me better. But it was a fun game for four, and gave me ideas of introducing the game to Lizzie and Miranda. In the back of my mind, I had thoughts of them bonding with Vanessa. That was important to me.

We went in to San Diego for dinner, and I took her to Emerald's, this nice Chinese place. She taught me how to use chopsticks, while I convinced her to try the dim sum. I told her about Miranda's aborted attempts to chase Ethan away, the night before, and she laughed so hard, the tears came to her eyes, which got me laughing, and she kept saying, "Stop! Stop!" and I kept going on, until she warned me she was going to pee, if I didn't stop.

Vanessa and Miranda had known who each other were. I mean, they had seen each other in the hallways, but they had never met, until recently. You have to understand. North Hillridge has over thirteen hundred students, and you can go through your entire high school career and not meet everyone, especially if they're in a different grade. Vanessa had only met Miranda a couple of weeks ago, at the birthday party that Lizzie had thrown for me, but they had seemed to hit it off pretty well. And again, you see, that was important to me.

Then we went to an outdoor amphitheater, and watched a performance of "Betrayal." But after the first act, Vanessa began to grow bored and started mocking the actor's lines, like an episode of Mystery Science Theatre 3000. At first, I tried to keep her quiet, embarrassed, but she persisted, and later, I thought, "_Who cares?_"

We were far enough away from everyone else that no one could hear us, and before long, she had me laughing again, and I thought, this isn't like me.

I mean, I don't laugh. I never have, not really. Oh sure, I smile, I grin. I can chuckle with the best of them. But with Vanessa, it was none of that. These were full-on belly laughs and giggles, the kind that get you plenty of uncomfortable stares from the stuffy snobs, the nouveau elite, the…people like me. And you know? That night, I didn't really care. I had found someone that I could have fun with, be romantic with, share secrets with, and be sensual with.

We left the play early (I'm sure to the delight and relief of theater management), and it was only nine-thirty, while Vanessa didn't have to be back until one. So I parked in one of the beach parking lots, and we removed our shoes, and took a walk on the beach. There was only a sliver of moon, and the lights from downtown prevented any of the stars from shining through, but still. We were teenagers, and maybe starting to fall in love, and my pleasures have always been simple.

She took my hand as we walked, and I twined my fingers through hers. "David Gordon," she asked me. "What do you want to be, when you grow up?"

"I want to make documentaries," I confided in her. "Everyone knows I want to be a director, but I'm not interested in the commercial blockbusters. If you want to be successful in that, you have to design a line of toys first, and then sign a marketing deal with Burger King, and then you make the movie that the studio tells you to make, and then, after submitting your baby to focus groups and test audiences, you go back and re-shoot scenes, to make sure you're giving the audience what it wants."

She stopped walking, and since she was holding my hand, I was forced to follow suit, and turn to her. "In other words," she observed, "you prostitute your soul."

"No," I corrected her. "Not in other words. Those are pretty much the exact words."

We had reached a pier that stretched a hundred yards or so out into the ocean, and we stepped up on it, and walked out over the waves, this magnificent beach all to ourselves. "So, I guess it'll be documentaries for me, or maybe small independent features, where I can share my vision. It won't be much, and I won't get much attention. But it'll be mine. You know?"

We stopped about midway out, and she leaned against the railing, and looked back toward the beach. She had grown silent, and when she crossed her arms, I said, "Cold? Do you wanna head back?"

She shook her head, and said "No," while the sea breeze twisted her hair in front of her face, and I reached out and brushed it away. "I want to stay out here, with you."

"What about you?"

"What about me?" she asked, perhaps a little confused.

"What do you want to be when you grow up, Vanessa Echols?"

She looked up at the moon for a moment, before responding. "Well, first of all, I want to get out of Spring Valley."

"Really?" I asked. "Hunh. Always pictured you as the small-town girl."

She laughed. "Oh, I'm a small-town girl, all right. I love the size. I just want to get out of the shadow of the big city." She closed her eyes dreamily. "I want to open up a coffee shop. And right next door, I'll run this intimate cozy, movie theatre. And I'll show first-run art films, and documentaries, and small independent features." She opened her eyes and glanced at me in wonder. "Hey!" she said, and draped her arms around my neck, looking up at me and leaning her body into mine.

It amazed me, how the curves in her body interlocked so well with mine.

"Hey," she repeated, much softer this time. "Maybe I can show one of your movies."

"Yeah," I smiled back, getting lost in her eyes. "You build the theatre; I'll make the movie."

She inhaled, then exhaled a long, slow breath, and I could feel her breasts swell against me. "What would your first movie be about?"

"I'm thinking, maybe…a beautiful, small-town girl, who captures the heart of a young director."

Her pupils completely filled her eyes, as she said, "Really, David? You'd do that, for me?"

"Vanessa, it's the least I'd do for you."

She kissed me, and her mouth tasted of peppermint. I never knew how she did that. One day, the week before, I had caught her in the hallway, right after lunch, and I surprised her with a kiss, right outside her Biology class, and she had tasted like peppermint, then, too.

She molded her body next to mine, and I could feel every part of her. I knew she could feel me, too, but there was no embarrassment, or even discomfort on my part, which surprised me a little. I wanted her to know how much I wanted her. I couldn't tell the difference between the pounding of the waves beneath us and the pounding of her heart against mine. And at the same time I was tasting her tongue, I was also smelling the strawberry scent of her hair, and for a brief moment, I was afraid I was going to enter sensory overload, and pass out.

And after about twenty minutes, she broke our kiss. Well, okay, maybe not that long, but it didn't matter, because I wasn't ready for it to end. So I kissed her again, and again we were swept away, lost in time. She twirled her fingers in my hair, and I twirled mine through the belt loops of her jeans.

When our kiss finally ended above the surf, she ran her tongue over her lips, swallowed, blinked, and said, "You taste good." I never knew guys had a taste. She hugged me, and nestled her head against my cheek, and all I could think about was her hair, and her lips, and her eyes, and everything else about her. "Take me…somewhere, David," she whispered. "I want to ride."

One of my hands was brushing through her hair, and the other was caressing her back. "Where do you want to go?" I asked.

"Doesn't matter," she said in a faraway voice. "It's all about the journey, not the destination."

So we spent the rest of our night together, taking the long slow roads back to our little hamlet of Spring Valley. We could have taken I-8, or Highway 94, but instead, we cruised down Market Street, and actually came back to town on the other side, from the east. Everything was quiet, but alive and vibrant at the same time.

When we pulled up to Vanessa's house, about a quarter 'til one, we saw that her parents had been considerate enough to leave the front porch light on for us. I walked her to her porch, and we stopped at the front door. "Hold on," she said with an impish grin, cracked open the front door, slid her hand just inside that opening, and flicked off the porch light. Then she withdrew her hand, closed the door, and clasped my hands in hers.

"I had fun," she assured me with a playful smile. "_Again_." Her smile kind of faltered, as some kind of realization hit her. "I always have fun, with you."

And it was at that moment that I had my first epiphany. She was right, for me, the yin for my yang.

I chuckled and told her, "I think you're very good for me, 'Nessa."

She tilted her head and crinkled her nose at me, just like someone else I knew. "Really? How?"

I kissed her briefly, and again felt the tang of peppermint. "I feel…liberated. Like I can do anything. No pressures, no expectations. We can just live for the moment."

"You should, David," she scolded me, as she toyed with the collar of my shirt, and for the twentieth time that night, she molded her body to mine. "You really are entirely too serious."

"You can help me with that?" I proposed.

"Oh, I'm gonna teach you how to have fun," she whispered, and pulled my lips down to hers. And a moment later, our lips parted, and she said, "Better be ready."

I released her, reluctantly. "I'll call you tomorrow," I promised.

She nodded, with just the tip of her tongue peeking through her lips, and then she started. "Oh, wait! I almost forgot." She popped open the front door once more, and entered the foyer, leaving just one foot still out on the porch. She brought back out with her a delicate white treasure that she cupped in both hands. An origami rose. "I made it this morning. For you."

I took it tenderly in both hands, almost afraid to touch it. I didn't know what to say, so I just said, "Thanks." As lame as that sounded to my ears, I believe she understood what this really meant to me. I wanted to take her in my arms again, but I knew my rose would never survive. So I simply repeated, "Thanks."

She nodded, as if she knew everything about me, this little tenth grader, and said, "See you tomorrow." She stepped inside and the door softly clicked shut behind her, and only then, did the porch light come back on.

I walked back to my car and climbed in, but only after making sure the rose was safely ensconced on the passenger seat. I turned the ignition, and was prepared to back out of her driveway, but my senses were suddenly captured by some odd déjà vu. I picked up the origami rose and held it to my face, and inhaled.

Peppermint.


End file.
